


The Games Aren’t Real, Not Anymore (PEETA MELLARK)

by RockWithItWriting



Category: The Hunger Games
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockWithItWriting/pseuds/RockWithItWriting
Summary: requested by anonymous: maybe a peta mellark where he has like a flashback to the games and you have to comfort him?word count: 590warnings: embellished PTSD symptoms, flashbacks, nightmares





	

It’s strange, the way that Peeta deals with his PTSD.

When it first started it was small instead of large like the counselors told you it would have. They told you, you know, it would be flashbacks and fits of rage but it wasn’t. Peeta started whimpering in his sleep and then he started waking up from the nightmares. When you noticed it he hadn’t slept for three days and hadn’t eaten for two- a small start up rather than an implosion.

You were frightened and didn’t know what to do- everything the specialists told you would happen didn’t and it was moving backwards. So, by that logic, Peeta would implode at any given moment into a fit of rage or depression. You were afraid, terrified, and ended up on eggshells around him. Peeta didn’t like you asking about the Games or anything that had transpired after instead wanting to keep you separated from all of the horror he had went through.

That didn’t matter when he was waking up screaming or not going to sleep at all. Peeta needed someone, needed you, to comfort him. He needed you to bring him back down from wherever he was.

And it happened one morning when you were in the garden picking vegetables for lunch when you heard the slamming from inside and Peeta’s raw voice in the same rhythm. You jumped to your feet and headed into your house to find Peeta wielding a broken leg of a chair against nothing in particular. As he raised it once more above his head you snatched it from his hands, putting it up as he whirled to accost you. Peeta had a wild look in his eyes, something akin to pure madness, but you knew it would go away.

It had to.

So instead of fighting him you tossed the chair leg away and ran toward Peeta, engulfing his struggling body in a tight hug. You screamed his name and jerked him to the ground until you were pressing down on his chest with both hands, remembering something about pressure and comfort but not really remembering the whole thing. You pressed down until his hands curled around your wrists and his nails scratched you and he yelled, screamed, cried, but then something happened.

Something shifted.

Peeta stopped struggling as much and his eyes died down until it was Peeta looking at you, Peeta the homemaker, Peeta the baker. It wasn’t Peeta the killer, Peeta the tribute, Peeta the rebel. But Your Peeta, your lover. He let his body go limp and then you shook as you sat on his stomach. He was crying, sobbing, so you pulled him up until his face was pressed into your neck.

“Peeta, baby?” You whispered, “What’s going on in your head?” He sobbed and wrapped his arms around you, keeping you close. He just shook his head sobbing, “Did you go back to the games?”

The next sob was brittle and you were almost afraid if you held him too tightly that he would break. He didn’t speak, Peeta never did when something like this happened, but he nodded.

And that nod was everything.

That nod was the first communication that you had received, the nod was a step in the right direction, the nod was giving you something to help Peeta, to keep him safe, to love him. The nod was all you needed, so you swayed with Peeta and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I love you, baby. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”


End file.
